And then I saw Elizaveta in the car with me instead of Pita. The image caught me off guard, yet it excited me too. I imagined the two of us heading north through the desert, stopping at small towns for a day or a week, we had no schedule to keep, making love whenever the urge took us, only with a bed beneath us, perhaps some music, clean and showered, no fear of waking anyone else up…

Nevertheless, this was a fantasy, nothing more. Even if she wanted to run away with me, she didn’t have an American visa. She wouldn’t get across the border.

We could always stay in Mexico. Go south instead of north, go to Cancún. Live in tropical paradise—until her visa expired and she had to go home.

I could marry her.

Right. It wasn’t that easy. It took time to get a greencard, there was a lot of paperwork involved, a lot of hassles.

Besides, why would I want to marry her? I barely knew her. Plus, she’d only be marrying me for the same reason she wanted to marry Jesus: money and a visa.

I glanced at Elizaveta now. She was looking at me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling she knew somehow what I was thinking about.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I’m okay.”

“You can rest. I will keep watch—”

The door to Pepper’s bedroom creaked open.

Rosa appeared. She looked guilty, as though she were up past her bedtime and knew it

I said, “What’s wrong, Rosa?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

“Do you want to hang out with us?”

She nodded.

I got up and went to her, closing the door quietly behind her and leading her back to where I’d been sitting. She settled between Elizaveta and I.

“What are you guys doing?” she asked.

“Waiting,” I said.

“For what?”

“For morning.”

“Then we’ll leave?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. I don’t like it here.”

“I don’t either.”

She studied the floor, and I could guess her next question.

“What happened to Muscles?” she asked.

“He was…hurt.”

“Is he dead like Miguel?”

I couldn’t see how lying would help any. I nodded.

“Did the ghost get him too?”

Elizaveta said, “We don’t know anything for sure.”

Rosa looked at her. “Why do you talk funny?”

Elizaveta blinked. “I don’t talk funny.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“How funny?”

“Like the bad guys in movies.”

Elizaveta snorted. “American movies.”

“She’s from Russia,” I said. “That’s how Russians speak English.”

“Are there Russian movies too?” Rosa asked.

“Of course,” Elizaveta said.

“I haven’t seen any.”

“There are, don’t you worry,” Elizaveta said, somewhat indignant.

“There are,” I agreed. “But they’re so bad nobody outside of Russia watches them.”

Elizaveta made a pfft sound.

We fell silent and listened to the machine gun patter of rain on the roof.